“Well, that would not be of much consequence, because I have enough left to wear upon any ordinary occasion, and Robert is not very likely to wish me to go to any grand place at present—he is so closely occupied with business that he scarcely visits anywhere, and always seems rather pleased when I refuse invitations.”
“You will tell me everything? You have no reason to apprehend that he has the faintest suspicion.”
“You make me tremble so that I can scarcely stand. You do not mean that you have heard anything that makes you say that, Laura?”
“Not a syllable, not a whisper, nothing of the kind. I spoke only on what you had said.”
“Does anything I have said make you think that such a thing is possible?” gasped Bertha, trembling like an aspen-leaf. “It may be so, now you detect it at once, while I have been living in such a state of maddening and distracting unhappiness, that I can form a judgment on nothing. Do you see anything to terrify us?”
“No, no, Bertha; be calm, my love.”
“I am certain you meant something.”
“Indeed I did not.”
“You have heard something, and that has brought you over so suddenly and secretly, and I am to flee. Oh, I cannot flee, my darling; if they hunt me to death I must die. I have no more energy, no more courage, and it would be much better that I were dead.”
“Do not talk madly,” said Laura, energetically, almost impatiently, pressing both her sister’s hands in her own. “There is no new danger whatever, at least none to you.”
“To whom, then?”
“To me, perhaps; but we will not speak of that now. What I have done, is done, and God will protect me through the rest,—at least I pray so. But we must be calm and rational, my dearest Bertha, and not bring the worst upon ourselves, when we may be able to avert it. You were speaking of your jewels.”
“Oh, yes. I was saying that I did not care about their being sent away, as I have told you, only that sometimes Robert lets a curious fancy come upon him, and he asks me to come down to dinner with some particular ornament which he has given me. His memory is wonderful; and if he should happen to ask me to wear something which I have not kept back, I know not indeed, with my nerves in the condition in which they are, what I should say. His going away, even for a few days, is a relief.”
“My poor Bertha, I gathered all this from the last note which you wrote to him.”
“He has sent you that?” said Bertha, colouring to the temples.
“He gave it into my hand,” said Laura, calmly. “Where and when, I will tell you by-and-by. But we have much to say to one another.”
“We must not say it here,” said Bertha, looking round, as if in terror.
“Not here, dear? Where can there be less interruption than in these quiet walks?”
“No, no. He may hear us. I know he will. He has spies everywhere—all round.”
“You must exaggerate, dear Bertha. Your fears have made you create dangers where there are none.”
“No, I tell you,” said poor Bertha, sinking her voice to a whisper, although there was no one within a hundred yards of the sisters, “he knows everything. Why is he in the garden to-day? Only to show that he knew I was coming, and why.”
“Impossible, dear child, unless you have shown him my note.”
“No, that I have in my pocket, here—see.” Mrs. Urquhart felt for the note, and Laura saw her face blanch with agitation.
“No, I have not got it. He has it. He has taken it from me. I know not how, but he has it.”
“How childish, dearest! How much more rational to suppose that, if you have really not got it, you left it on the table or dropped it on the floor. How shall I ever be able to help you if you are so wild?”
“I put it most carefully into my pocket, I tell you,” said Bertha, “and felt that it was safely there, and yet he has managed to get hold of it. You may judge what sort of a life I am leading.”
“I will not argue with you, dear, but I wish I were as sure of finding a bank-note on your table as my letter.”
“Come home at once with me. Oh, not for that, but that we may speak in safety.”
“Are we safer there than here?”
“Yes, yes. Come, dear.”
“I would come in a moment, but there is one thing I want to say. He hinted to me that you had been compelled to place confidence—more than you ought to place in any servant—in”
“Henderson?”
“Yes, that is the name.”
“There is nothing to fear from her.”
“Bertha, she is in his power.”
“There is nothing to fear from her. Do not speak more about it. I would tell you everything.”
“You must, dear, now, for reasons which I will give you. Else all will be ruined.”
“Well, come to the house.”
“I will. But, Bertha, there is no fear of Robert’s coming back while I am here?”
“None whatever. He will be away at least a week. But tell me, dearest, why should you object to see Robert? I thought that you admired him so much, and I am sure that he always had the highest regard for you.”
“I will answer that, dear, when I tell you my whole story. Now, listen. It must not be known that I am at your house.”
“Do you mean that the servants—Henderson knows you, of course, but not any of the others.”
“What I mean is that you must put me into your little room, where I will live while I am with you.”
“Yes, yes, certainly, love.”
“And remember, Bertha, whoever comes, and